by John Dean
‘Does the name Gerry Radford mean anything to you?’ asked Harris.
‘I answered Trevor’s mobile on Thursday night,’ nodded Jasmine. ‘Trevor had forgotten to take it with him when he went out with the dog. When I asked the caller his name, he said to tell him that Gerry had called. Gave me a number where he could contact him.’
‘We found it,’ nodded Harris. ‘He’d hidden it in a book. Do you know who Gerry is?’
‘Not at first, but when I asked him about it the next morning, Trevor said it was this Radford man. I think he regretted it because, after that, he went all quiet. I looked Radford up on the office computer.’ She turned dark eyes upon the detectives. ‘Do you think he killed Trevor?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said Harris.
‘Well, Trevor was certainly frightened enough. He was panicking, saying we might have to leave.’
‘Who else did he tell? David Bowes, I assume?’
‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Instinct. Did they meet?’
‘At the King’s Head, I think. They were both part of the poker game there. Trevor had always liked gambling. He always did the online poker, and we went to the races a couple of times. Trevor enjoyed that – we laughed about it because he came out ahead both times.’ She smiled at the memory.
‘And you think he went to see Bowes about what had happened with Radford?’
‘I think so. I got the impression that they had known each other before Levton Bridge. Trevor was delighted when he came to live up here, said he was a man he could trust.’
The inspector leaned forward again.
‘Did he at any stage,’ he said quietly, ‘ever tell you that David Bowes is actually a man called Paul Garratt?’
Jasmine gave him a sad smile.
‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘So, do I assume that your husband talked about this Paul Garratt fellow?’ asked Gallagher, staring intently across the table at Gaynor Thornycroft.
‘James said he was a man not to be trusted,’ she nodded.
‘Why would he say that?’
‘I got the impression that James was frightened of Garratt, that something had happened in their past.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘All I know, is that James did not want to talk about him. Whenever I mentioned Garratt’s name, James would walk out of the room.’
‘And you? How did that make you feel?’
‘I was past caring by then, Sergeant. I could see my world crumbling around me. Everything I had worked for over the years, everything I had relied on – my marriage to James, financial security for our future, everything was disappearing.’ She hesitated, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘I was losing everything, Sergeant.’
‘Who exactly is Paul Garratt?’ asked Jasmine Riley.
‘Someone we would very much like to talk to. Not only is he suspected of at least one murder, back in Zaire,’ said Harris quietly, ‘but Customs have been tracking him for years. He’s very high on their most wanted list.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Inspector?’ exclaimed the solicitor. ‘I thought this was about—’
‘What I am talking about,’ said Harris, ‘was Trevor’s biggest secret. You see, before he sought the anonymity of life in sleepy old Levton Bridge, Trevor Meredith – or Robert Dunsmore, to use his real name – was in league with Garratt, who just happened to be one of the biggest wildlife smugglers in Africa.’
‘But Trevor loved animals!’ exclaimed Jasmine.
‘People change.’
‘Yes,’ she said, hope replacing dismay, ‘yes, they do. So, maybe Trevor changed. Maybe all this secrecy was because he was ashamed of what he had done and was putting it all behind him, making a new life for—’
‘I don’t think so,’ interrupted Harris. ‘Six months ago, Customs were alerted to a container at the docks in Dover. When they forced their way in, it was full of rare birds from Africa. There had been a problem with the ventilation and they had all died on the journey over. Customs re-sealed the container and waited to see who claimed it. The man who turned up the next night was none other than Paul Garratt. Unfortunately, he managed to give them the slip. However, three weeks ago, he turned up at Liverpool docks again, this time with an accomplice. Customs think that they were checking it out to bring something in. They got a CCTV picture. It’s not very good but it’s good enough.’
Harris reached into his suit jacket pocket, produced a small picture and handed it over to Jasmine.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that you recognize the man standing next to Paul Garratt?’
Jasmine stared down at the grainy image.
‘It’s Trevor,’ she said quietly.
‘I am sorry, Jasmine,’ said the inspector, ‘but I think your fiancé’s past finally caught up with him.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked the solicitor, looking at Harris as Jasmine started sobbing again.
‘Ah, now there’s the slight hitch in the scenario. No, I am not. Trevor Meredith was a man of many mysteries, as I sure you will have gathered by now. Given his recent attempts to investigate dog fighting, it is just possible that he was doing the same thing with wildlife trafficking. Mind, if he was working undercover, he never told Customs about it, which makes me doubt that he was doing anything with official sanction.’ Harris gave a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Who knows on whose side Trevor Meredith stood? And unfortunately, of the two people who can tell us, Paul Garratt has done a runner and James Thornycroft will be unable to speak to us for a long time to come.’
The inspector glanced at Roberts: they had both heard the dismal updates from Roxham General Hospital.
‘If ever,’ added the DCI.
‘So what was the plan yesterday?’ asked Roberts, glancing at Jasmine as her sobs subsided and she dabbed bloodshot eyes with her handkerchief. ‘When you left the cottage?’
‘Trevor said it would look like he was going to work early. He was convinced the house was being watched. He said they would follow him, not me. Said he would shake them off and that I would be OK.’ She gave the detectives an anxious look. ‘You don’t think I was followed, do you? I mean, to my mum’s house?’
‘Chester Police are keeping an eye on her home,’ said Harris, ‘No need to worry on that score, Jasmine. She is perfectly safe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Matty Gallagher, sitting back in his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Thank you, Gaynor.’
‘It feels good to have told you everything,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s been a very difficult time and all of this has been preying on my mind. I think it is best out in the open, don’t you?’
‘Always, Gaynor, always.’
‘So what happens now? Will Paul Garratt be charged with attacking James?’ she asked. ‘And poor Trevor? Will he be charged with his murder?’
‘I am sure you realize that I cannot go into those details at this stage. Suffice to say, we would like to talk to him – and there’s plenty of other people would like a nice cosy chat as well, if what you have told us is right.’
‘It is.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘You don’t think he will come after me as well, do you? I mean, what if he hears that I have been helping you?’
‘My guess is that he will be trying to get out of the country rather than thinking about you. Don’t worry, Gaynor, I am sure you are safe. We can provide you with some police protection until this blows over, if you would like.’
‘No,’ she said, with a shake of the head. ‘No, that’s all right. But thank you for the offer.’
‘You have been very courageous, Gaynor,’ said Gallagher, giving her a reassuring smile. ‘Very courageous indeed and we are very grateful for your co-operation at such a difficult time.’
‘I’m just glad I could help,’ she said.
There was a knock on the door and Butterfield poked her head into the interview room at Levton Bridge Police Station.
‘Sorry, guv,’ sh
e said, ‘can I have a word?’
Harris stood up and joined her in the corridor,
‘I hope this is good,’ he said, rubbing his tired eyes then running a hand through his hair, ‘because I really do want to get some kip after this.’
‘I’d better get you a black coffee then,’ said Butterfield. ‘Chester police have just been on. Jasmine’s mum nipped out to see a neighbour and when she got back, a man was ransacking her house.’
‘Is she hurt?’
‘Not sure. Another neighbour had seen what was happening through the front window and dialled 999. Said she thought the man was armed.’
‘Jesus!’
‘There’s more,’ said Butterfield, enjoying the impact her words were having: it appealed to her sense of the dramatic. ‘The neighbour tried to warn Jasmine’s mum but could not reach her in time and she went into the house just as a police vehicle was turning into the street. A shot was fired, hit the police car and now Mum’s being held hostage.’
‘Marvellous,’ sighed Harris, ‘the perfect end to a perfect day. Right, I’ll rustle up some transport, you go and put the kettle on.’
‘Guv?’
‘I might take you up on that offer of a coffee before I go.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It did not take Jack Harris long to assemble his team and leave Scoot in the hands of the night desk sergeant, who was well used to the task. After a quick chat with the waiting Cheshire Police motorway crew, and summoning a traffic vehicle of their own, the detectives were soon heading south, Harris in the back of the lead car, Roberts, Butterfield and Jasmine Riley in the second vehicle. The DCI’s car stopped briefly at Roxham Police Station to pick up Gallagher, the sergeant climbing into the back next to the inspector and regaling his boss with what he had learned from Gaynor Thornycroft.
‘Sounds interesting,’ said Harris, as the vehicle drove fast and smooth on the last of the country roads before the motorway. ‘Do we trust her?’
‘As much as we can trust anyone. Once she realized that I was not going to be fobbed off, she seemed only too keen to help out.’
‘What’s in it for her, though?’
‘Look at it from her point of view, guv. Her husband is fighting for life in a hospital bed, his friend is dead – I reckon she’s terrified of this Garratt fellow. Frightened that he will come after her, maybe.’
‘Yeah, I’ll buy that,’ nodded Harris as the car turned on to the southbound M6, rapidly picking up speed as it moved into the outside lane. ‘There’s no telling what he’s capable of doing.’
‘Do we assume he is the man holding Jasmine’s mum hostage?’
‘I reckon.’
‘He’s got to be our main suspect then.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Yet even now you don’t sound convinced.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Harris. ‘And I won’t be until I get to sit down and look him in the eye and find out exactly what the hell has been happening.’
‘Well,’ said Gallagher as he peered over the driver’s shoulder and noted that the speedometer read 109 m.p.h. and rising, ‘that might be earlier than you think.’
No one spoke much as the two vehicles neared Chester, the cars eating up the miles, headlights flashing to move other vehicles out of the way. For each detective, different thoughts occupied their minds as they approached the city. For Harris and Gallagher, the event brought back memories of crime in the cities, of major incidents and of rapid responses. Of an earlier life which now only existed in distant memories. For Butterfield, sitting next to Roberts, this was what she had joined the job for and her eyes gleamed as the cars sped through the night. Gillian Roberts’ thoughts were on much more mundane matters. Having left her husband caring for her boys, she stared out of the window and wondered about whether or not he would get them enough breakfast. She wondered if she should ring him and tell him about the loaf of bread in the freezer, but when she glanced down at her watch, it said 3 a.m. so she decided against it.
When the cars entered Chester, the siege had been under way for several hours. On arrival in the quiet residential area on the western fringes, the officers found their vehicles held back at the end of a street of semi-detached houses by a barrier of patrol cars with blue lights flashing. Harris was the first out of the lead vehicle, pulling on his protective vest as he strode past the gaggle of civilians who had gathered to witness unfolding events and across to a uniformed sergeant to whom he flashed his warrant card.
‘I’ll take you down, sir,’ said the uniform, ‘they’re waiting for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harris.
Leaving the others to make their own arrangements, the inspector followed the officer, walking past darkened houses with no sign of life.
‘We evacuated them,’ explained the constable, noticing the detective’s quizzical look. ‘The chief inspector said he did not want to take any risks – no telling what this nutter will do. They’re all in a nearby church hall. At least two of the old’uns have already said it reminds them of the Blitz.’
‘I’m sure they did. They will be loving this.’
‘Reckon you’re right. The siege house is at the far end, two up from the junction’ said the officer, pointing down the road. ‘The one on the right, with the slightly higher front wall. Our lot are a little further down on the other side. They’re using that house with the blue door as their base.’
‘Any movement?’
‘Nothing,’ said the uniform. ‘In fact, there’s been nothing since it happened. We have got a negotiator trying to talk to the guy but he refuses to say anything. Could be a long night.’
‘Not if I have anything to do about it,’ said Harris wearily.
A minute later, they were at the house with the blue door and Harris was led down the short drive, past a couple of armed officers crouching in between the neatly trimmed bushes and shrubs, their guns trained on the siege house on the other side of the road. Neither took their eyes off their target nor did they acknowledge his presence. Once into the darkened house, Harris was taken up the stairs and into the front bedroom. Sitting at the window were two men, their features indistinct in the darkness as they stared out at the house across the road.
‘DCI Harris for you, sir,’ said the uniform.
The uniformed officer at the window lowered his binoculars, turned in his seat and extended a hand.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Chief Inspector Norris, Cheshire Police. Take a pew. Sorry about the darkness, keeping the lights off in case chummy takes a pot shot.’
Harris sat down on the bed: it suddenly seemed a long time since he had slept in his.
‘Hey,’ said Norris, ‘did I hear control say that you are from Levton Bridge?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harris warily: he was well used to the jokes about Sleepy Hollow but they never ceased to irritate him.
‘You still got Philip Curtis up your way?’
‘Divisional commander.’ Harris looked at him for a moment, wondering how best to play it. Was Norris like Curtis, all rules and posturing, or was he another Andy Hulme, the kind of man you could talk to? ‘How come you know our glorious leader?’
‘I was on a command course with him a few months back.’
Great, thought Harris, another stuffed shirt.
‘I assume the man is still a brain-dead fuckwit?’ said Norris. ‘He must be an absolute nightmare to work for.’
‘ ’Fraid so,’ grinned Harris, and knew they would be all right.
The other person in the room, a sallow-faced, slim man in jeans and a worn brown cord jacket, had said nothing during the conversation. Now, he turned round and looked at Harris.
‘John Warboys,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Official negotiator. Not that I am doing much official negotiating. Seems like chummy is not in the mood for talking.’
‘From what we hear of him, it’s not his forte,’ said Harris, looking beyond them and out of the window. If he craned his head, he could jus
t make out the siege house, which was still in darkness and silent. There was no sign of movement.
‘Been like this since the start,’ said Warboys, reading his thoughts.
‘When did you last hear from him?’
‘We haven’t. We’ve tried everything, ringing the landline, loud hailer, the lot. He does not want to talk, simple as that.’
‘Are we sure they are both in there?’ asked Harris.
‘We got someone round the back straightaway,’ nodded Norris. ‘One of the lads from our patrol vehicle. Was shot at for his trouble. He is pretty sure that neither of them got out, though.’
‘So what exactly happened?’
‘When Emily Riley walked into her house, she heard chummy in the living room. By all accounts, she cried out in alarm and he barged past her, knocking her over, then tried to get to his vehicle. That’s it, the 4x4.’
The inspector pointed to the black Shogun parked a little further up the road, a patrol car skewed at an angle behind it.
‘That’s the one that was shot at,’ he said. ‘It’s an armed response vehicle, actually. It had been a routine patrol.’
‘What, in an area like this?’
‘ ’Fraid so. We have had a couple of armed hold-ups at off-licences, one of them not far from here. Double-barrelled jobs. All very crude. We think the gang comes from Liverpool.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Harris, ‘we get them as well. Just got three of them locked up actually. This lot were nicking quad bikes.’
‘Yeah, well, we’re on a big push to get this bunch before they hurt someone. Anyway, we were using the ARV to keep an eye on the vic’s house as well, as you requested, and by sheer luck – up to you if you think it was good or bad – it turned into the road just as chummy reached his car. He panicked and let off a shot – handgun of some sort. Smashed a side window of our car.’
‘Anyone injured?’
‘No, the lads were lucky. Anyway, your guy legs it back to the house, threatens to shoot a couple of neighbours who came out to see what the fuss was about – that’ll give them something to talk about at the bridge club – and goes back into the house where Emily Riley was apparently still lying on the floor.’
